J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

Merlin took the conversational lead. “So, how are our prisoners?”

Brit smiled. “They are still imprisoned. What else do you need to know?”

“It might be helpful if one of them confessed.”

“Confessed to what, Merlin? To starting the plague? Most of Europe thinks the Byzantines spread it deliberately. I’ll show you the intelligence reports after breakfast.”

“But I am not at all certain that-never mind. Have Marmaduke and Lulua said anything?”

“About-”

“About anything at all related to their attempt to do Arthur and me in. About who might have been behind it.”

Brit was lost. “Do you think creatures like them need to be urged to commit evil?”

Arthur spoke up. “What Merlin wants to know, Brit, is whether they have given any indication that my sister might have been behind their treason.”

Mordred exclaimed, “My mother?! Why would she-? I mean, why wouldn’t she, but really, why would she? Eliminating Uncle Arthur would undermine her own position in England. The barons would never-”

“Let us say,” Merlin interrupted, “that there are grounds for suspicion if nothing more.”

“But-”

“Later, Mordred.” Arthur smiled a patient smile.

Merlin pressed on. “What about Marian of Bath and her sons? Has any of them said anything?”

“Not a word that might incriminate them, if that’s what you mean. They seem more puzzled and outraged than anything else.” Brit took a long swallow of mead. “This is supposed to be a celebration of your return, Arthur. Do you really want to let Merlin turn it into an inquiry?”

“If Morgan is behind what has been happening, the situation is more serious than I would have believed. Or would have wanted to believe. But she has made a grave tactical blunder.” Bedivere started to say something, but Arthur anticipated him and cut him off. “Almost as grave as the tactical blunder I made when we were planning the journey.”

Everyone looked at Mordred. The young man blushed and tried to go on eating as if he didn’t understand. But it was clear to everyone there: Morgan had left her son and heir in Arthur’s hands-a bad move for a potential traitor.

“But-but-” Mordred felt compelled to say something but wasn’t sure what would be appropriate. “But-would she have done that if she was really a traitor?”

Merlin stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I wonder.”

“But-but you can’t suspect me, Uncle. I’ve never-”

“You are your mother’s son. You must know as much about poisons and such as she does, or nearly so. I must ask that you remain here in, shall we say, protective custody, until this matter is resolved.”

“Yes, Uncle. But I give you my word, I don’t want to leave. You know that Mother and I have never-”

“I am afraid,” Merlin cut him off, “that the word of the son of a suspected traitor carries very little weight.”

Arthur smiled indulgently. “It’s only for a short time, Mordred. I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it all fairly soon.”

Peter approached Merlin, smiling. “It is time for me to get back to Darrowfield. I’ve been away much longer than I’d planned. Our journey together was so very… interesting.”

“I will miss you, Peter. Having you along to give me support was quite invaluable. With none of my usual aides to help me…”

“Believe me, Merlin, it was my pleasure. The chance to see you in action, even if that action was inconclusive, meant the world to me.”

“When will you leave?”

“As soon as I can make the necessary arrangements. Before noon, with luck.”

Merlin took his hand. “Until we meet again, then. Be well. And be certain to keep me posted on the murder investigation at Darrowfield. The crown wants to know who murdered our baron.”

“I’ll be sure to do so. And of course I’ll send whatever plague news I can.”

“Let us hope there will be none.”

Peter grinned and shook his hand again. “Well, I’m off to the stables to make my arrangements. As you said, till we meet again.” He made a slight bow and a little salute, then turned and headed off toward the stables.

A sudden surge of bitterly cold air swept across England that morning. There was, thankfully, no more snow or rain, but the temperature turned frigid. In the sunlight particles of ice could be seen dancing in the air, stirred by the slightest breeze.

Merlin began to feel the cold in every joint in his body. His limbs grew stiff and sore, even more than they were usually. Every now and again the pain would become so severe that he would wince and curse the weather and his own body silently.

He sent a messenger to catch Peter in the stables. The note he sent read, “Be certain to take blankets and cloaks. Winter is upon us and shows signs of being merciless.”

Then it was time to return to his tower. Petronus scrambled up the steps to make certain the lift mechanism was operating properly. Then Merlin took his seat in the sling and began his mechanical ascent, more grateful than ever that he had built the thing.

“Merlin!” Nimue jumped up from her sick bed and impulsively threw her arms around him. “It’s so wonderful to have you back! And alive!”

He permitted her embrace for a moment, then pulled free and kissed her cheek lightly. “Alive? Exactly how old do you think I am?”

She laughed. “As old as the stones at Stonehenge, if not older. You look tired. The journey was hard on you.”

“So kind of you to say so.” The raven Roc flew in through the window, perched on Merlin’s shoulder and nuzzled his cheek. He raised a hand to pet it. “But you are right. I have traveled much too much lately. Dover, Darrowfield, Grosfalcon… A true scholar does not need to travel.”

She cocked her head at him, puzzled.

“I mean it. A scholar may just as well stay where the gods put him, and dig.”

Petronus was standing behind him, watching and listening. “You don’t believe in the gods. You say so often enough.”

“Do not be difficult, Petronus.”

“It’s so wonderful to have you back and safe. May I… may I…”

“Yes?”

Instead of finishing his thought the boy rushed forward and threw his arms around Merlin. “The scant reports we had about your journey had us so worried.”

“All this hugging.” Merlin feigned distaste. “It is so unseemly.”

Nimue laughed at him. “You are a fraud, Merlin. You’re as glad to be home as we are to have you here.”

“Perhaps so.” He was giving nothing away. He found his favorite chair and sat. “But tell me about your bout with the plague. What were the symptoms? Why do you think you recovered instead of…?”

“Plague? The report you received must not have been complete.” Nimue glanced at Petronus and scowled. “It was not plague. I had a severe case of the ague. Petronus says the French call it influenza. Fever, chills, stomachache, congestion… Several people in the castle have had it. How did you get the notion it was plague?”

“At first I thought it was only a cold. But then I grew fearful that it might be something far worse. It was foolish of me. I know better than to make unwarranted assumptions. But Marian of Bath and her son Wayne-”

“They were wonderful, Merlin. They fussed over me like anxious nursemaids. They said they wanted to allay your suspicions about them.” She hesitated. “What suspicions? And why? Why on earth did you have them arrested?”

He ignored the question. “They gave you no drugs? Nothing that might have-?”

“Nothing, no. You’re being mysterious.” It was an accusation.

“I am trying to make sense of everything that has happened. Did they ever give you any reason to think they might be loyal to Morgan?”